Fic: Selfish (Sherlock)

[jemisard]

Title: Selfish
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson/Mycroft Holmes
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sequel to Greedy. The promised threesome.
Warnings: Graphic sex. Consensual incest. Mild bondage.


All John wanted was a nice quiet evening to himself.

Last night, Sherlock had kept him up until two running through the streets of London from bar to bar, looking for something that he still wasn’t entirely sure what it was. He had come home without his housemate, been unable to sleep until he heard him get in safely at four and then he had to get up at seven thirty to drag himself to work.

He had slept through his whole lunch break, nearly got fired when he slept over that and lost out on his afternoon break by taking it at lunch to sleep a bit more.

He was tired and worn out and he wanted a hot cuppa, a hot shower and a decent rest, maybe an evening camped out on the couch and listening to Sherlock working.

Instead, he opened the door to Sherlock and Mycroft sitting in the armchairs, knee to knee, Sherlock leaning back lazily and Mycroft leaning forwards onto his umbrella. They both looked to him.

“No. I don’t care. I’m not dealing with you two tonight.”

They both looked briefly surprised as he walked past them and into the kitchen. He really wanted that cup of tea about now.

He started filling the kettle, staring blankly at the wall and enjoying the numb feeling of being home and having no obligations for the night. If the brothers wanted to kill each other, that was okay. He knew the feeling, he wanted to kill them too sometimes.

Especially since Sherlock’s horribly mistimed revelation about the relationship between himself and Mycroft.

He blinked.

Was that why Mycroft was here?

“In a manner of speaking,” Sherlock purred, sliding along the table’s edge to crowd John away from the sink, flicking the tap off with a gesture and advancing.

“Sherlock, I’m really tired...” He backed up, aiming for the door and instead hit something.

“Then we’ll have to do our best to take the burden of activity off you, shan’t we, Doctor Watson?” Mycroft’s hands closed on John’s upper arms, holding him firmly.

“Excuse me?” He tried to wriggle free, but then Sherlock was there, pressing against his front.

“I told you I’d love to see what he could do to you, John. You’re so strongly built, sturdy. You can take it, I’m sure.” He leaned down, biting John’s earlobe and tugging on it.

“It?” Mycroft sounded offended. “I am not an ‘it’, Sherlock.”

“Can you two do this some other night,” John protested. “I mean... Sherlock, did you even ask Mycroft if he was interested in this... me?”

“Low self image does little for you, Doctor,” Mycroft murmured, hands pinning John’s arms behind his back with shocking strength. “I assure you, I’ve been looking forward to this evening for some time, waiting for our schedules to meet up.”

“You’ve planned- Of course you ha-” His statement trailed off with a low whimper as Sherlock bit his throat, hands ripping his shirt apart, buttons flying, to latch onto his chest with the same ferocious hunger.

He tried to pull free, but Mycroft’s hands squeezed tighter, pinning his arms behind his back with more force.

Sherlock sank lower, teeth none too gentle as he nipped at John’s nipples, tongue chasing afterward to drag over the heated skin. It was slick warmth that almost felt cold compared to how much his nipples burned from Sherlock’s nipping and tugging. He wriggled, the cloth of his shirt almost chafing where he was tightly held by the elder Holmes.

“Sherlock, I do think the doctor needs more encouragement to wake up and join in on this.”

Looking up, Sherlock glowered. “It wouldn’t kill you to do something other than restrain him.”

“Not tonight, Sherlock. Think of John...” Mycroft purred the words, watching Sherlock intently as he lowered his mouth to John’s neck, kissing along it, teeth catching his shirt collar and pulling it back to bare more of his flesh to investigation.

So different from the way Sherlock was mauling his chest, teeth and tongue and tasting and biting. His bites were sharp and the way he tasted John’s skin was almost vicious, like he could taste into his soul just by licking his skin hard enough.

Mycroft’s mouth moved, nose nuzzling under John’s jaw to make him tip his head back and bare more of his throat to more attentions. At the same moment, Sherlock sank down lower, tongue pushing into John’s navel, teeth biting the flesh around it. His hands jerked at John’s belt and trousers, pulling him forwards, only to have Mycroft knot the shirt and pin his arms between their bodies. His arms wrapped around John’s body, holding him still and upright as he was stripped of his clothes.

With his pants around his ankles, his shirt around his arms, Mycroft at his back and neck and Sherlock at his front and stomach and heading steadily lower, John decided he must’ve gone to sleep on the road and died, because this didn’t happen in real life.

Then Sherlock’s hands slid up his thighs to grab his arse and he bent down to suck on the head of his cock and John stopped thinking at all.

There was exquisite heat and suction, sliding down along his length and back up again, pausing for the slick roll of a tongue over him and then a careful repetition of the whole affair. John wanted to look down and watch, see Sherlock’s mouth around his cock and those brilliant eyes focused entirely on what he was doing. He couldn’t, Mycroft was still kissing and mouthing at his throat; one hand casually brushing fingertips over John’s abused nipple, drawing gasps and moans from him.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured. He lifted his head up to speak, but it took John long seconds to think of lifting his head from the older man’s shoulder to look down at his lover.

Sherlock paused mid lick, tongue pressed flat to the tip of John’s cock. He raised one eyebrow and John wanted to scream at them.

“Churlish child, don’t tease the poor doctor. You’re quite capable of continuing and listening to me.” One of Mycroft’s arms lowered and his fingers pushed into Sherlock’s hair, tugging him back down onto John’s length. John’s eyes rolled back in his head, his voice caught in his throat as Mycroft didn’t let up, pulling Sherlock down and down, deeper than before, until John could feel the tight press of Sherlock’s throat and then unimaginably more, full lips pressing to his skin as he took the whole length.

John fought to not move, not hurt Sherlock but then Mycroft ground against him, hard and heated against John’s lower back. The motion rolled his body against Sherlock and the younger man swallowed, hard and purposefully and John did scream, whimpering as the pressure vanished again and slid back off him.

“You were saying,” he said in a soft voice, husky and throaty and wonderful and then he was diving back down again, urged on by both Mycroft’s hand and John’s sounds.

“We should convince John to have his nipples pierced,” Mycroft said conversationally. John would protest but he couldn’t find the voice to, not with Sherlock deep throating him and Mycroft’s hand coming back up to pinch and roll and tug on his nipple. “They’re so sensitive; he reacts with such abandon.”

Sherlock swallowed and then hummed thoughtfully and John came undone, screaming wordlessly as he came so close to the edge and then-

Sherlock was gone and up in his face, grinning wolfishly and grinding against him. “Not so interested in sleep now, are you?”

He hated them. He hated them so much and when he could breathe, when his body stopped bucking needily and his voice was his again, he would tell them so.***

“You don’t hate us,” Mycroft murmured, and he really hated how they did this, read his expressions and movements like they just read his mind. It meant they could have entire silent conversations without John knowing what was being said.

“I hate you,” Sherlock murmured with entirely too much heat in his voice.

“Mm, yes, I know,” Mycroft agreed.

Then-with John pressed between them-they closed the distance over his shoulder to meet for a slow, deep kiss.

It was for show. He could see that, in the way they broke apart, all parted lips and teasing tongues before they crashed together again, fighting each other for control of the kiss. It didn’t make it any easier for John to resist it, especially when they both rolled against him during the kiss.

He moaned and trembled and the kiss broke, both of them smiling. Sherlock caught John’s chin and lifted him up into another kiss, slow and deep and he could taste tea and sugary sweetness which was definitely not Sherlock’s preference.

They moved him with tiny steps and presses, still meeting for short, sharp kisses over his shoulder interspersed with Sherlock biting and nipping at his lips before kissing the pain away with soft lips and slick tongue.

Sherlock slid up onto the table-when did they get here?-and wrapped his longer legs around John’s waist, pulling him close and pushing his pants down more. Mycroft finally let his arms go and John threw off his shirt so he could start pulling Sherlock’s clothes open, pay him back for his horrendous teasing with nips and licks of his own over that pale skin. Sherlock moaned and threw his head back, grinding against John and moving to undo his own pants.

Mycroft was obligingly removing his shoes to get his pants off, so John stepped out of them, briefly wondering what was so fascinating about his ankles in socks that Mycroft was lingering over them. Then Sherlock’s hands were teasing his own chest and he was arching in a way that begged John to close his mouth over a nipple and work it with his mouth, so he did.

Then left foot slid and his right didn’t. Sherlock hauled him back into a deep kiss, enticingly wrapped legs going tight to stop him getting away as Mycroft duct taped his other ankle to the table leg, over the socks.

Sherlock broke the kiss and looked to his brother. “Secure?”

“Please, Sherlock, I can restrain a man with duct tape without supervision.” Mycroft ran his hands over John’s back, pressing close against him.

“You two...” He was torn between more turned on than he’d been in his life and wanting to kill them both. He could never reach his own ankles to free himself, they had him trapped. “You bastards,” he breathed out.

“Please, Doctor, our parents were married when we were born.”

Sherlock reached past John to Mycroft, both hands curling in his brother’s jacket and jerking him close, hard against John and making John cry out slightly as the solid heat behind him ground against his body once more.

“You’ll wrinkle my jacket,” Mycroft teased.

Sherlock shrugged and nipped Mycroft’s lower lip, undoing his tie with deft fingers. “Good cause.”

“Which is?”

“Shagging John until he can’t remember anything but our names,” Sherlock stated in a very matter of fact way.

John couldn’t breathe, watching long, nimble fingers slide the silk past his cheek and then drop down to stroke his cock. “Sherlock... no.”

“Yes, John.” He nudged John more upright, winding the silk around him slowly. “Not up for discussion. I want this to last until you’re screaming and sobbing for release.”

Whimpering at those words, John closed his eyes, letting Mycroft hold him steady as Sherlock used Mycroft’s tie to fashion an impromptu cock ring on him. Mycroft’s soft hands kept stroking his body.

Sherlock slid back along the table, taking John’s hands and pulling them out along the table. John reflexively tugged, but Sherlock kept hold, lacing their fingers together and sitting down at the far end of the table on a chair. He rested his chin on the table, watching John’s face.

Stretched out, John was completely pinned, bent over the table with his ankles taped to spread his legs, Sherlock holding tightly to his hands, chest on the cold surface. He met the pale eyes that were blown dark with lust. “How long have you been planning this,” he asked breathlessly.

“Since before we started having sex,” Sherlock said with a slight grin. “When I informed Mycroft that our arrangement was off.”

“And I insisted he tell me about you in detail,” Mycroft added from behind John somewhere. If he closed his eyes and listened, he could hear cloth, so probably Mycroft was undressing. Or at least taking off his coat.

“He did. What you smelt like, how you shifted your weight, how fit you kept yourself.” Sherlock glanced up his brother and back to John’s face. “Everything. And I’d sooner tell him myself than have any of his grubby agents trying to paw you.”

“My employees are not grubby agents,” Mycroft protested. “They are highly skilled professionals.”

“Professional whats,” John asked.

A hand slapped his arse, drawing a startled shout from him. “My brother’s a bad influence on you, Doctor.”

John tried to twist and look back and protest, but Sherlock refused to let go of his arms and give him the space to do so. Despite that, there was no more of them; he could only assume Mycroft had read that he really wasn’t impressed with it.

The thought and his annoyance fled his mind as he felt heated breath over his thighs and cheeks, then a teasing tongue tracing patterns over his skin. He tried not to move, not to buck or grind or push back as lips dragged damp trails over him and his gaze was held, pinned by Sherlock’s own.

Then Mycroft stopped teasing and his tongue slicked over John’s hole and John gasped, hips bucking back and unable to break Sherlock’s gaze. It would be eerie if not for the fact that it was Sherlock, he was watching John like he was the centre of the universe, like every reaction of pleasure on his face could unravel the secrets of the world.

He felt like he might unravel as strong hands pulled his cheeks further apart and that hard tongue pushed into him, thrusting and making him groan. He shuddered as Mycroft worked him open with steady thrusts and deep twists of his tongue. As he tried to pull away, again, he was pulled once more, Sherlock sliding forwards to kiss him, holding his hands tight as his tongue pushed aggressively between John’s lips.

He was caught between them, between their mouths, their tongues, their too sharp attentions breaking him apart and putting him back together as something of pure lust and need. His hips could barely flex but he was already so close to the edge that it just took the brush of his cock against the edge of the table to spike him up higher...

And there was a painful throb in his cock and gut as the snugly tied silk put an end to that. He half sobbed at the feeling of the denied, choked off orgasm; he felt Sherlock smile against his mouth at the sound and felt Mycroft chuckle against him, drawing back.

“How is he, Sherlock,” Mycroft asked, running his hands up and along John’s back, scratching down again lightly and making John moan and arch into it.

“Why are you asking me? You already know.” Sherlock came back in for another kiss, trying to dominate John with the kiss.

“I want to hear you say it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sharing a look with John. At least, John imagined he was trying to share it, John was busy trying to breathe.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock looked up at him. “I thought we weren’t teasing John...”

John heard Mycroft move, then he came into sight, still wearing his shirt and vest and pants neatly done up.

Sherlock let go of John, sliding off the table to meet Mycroft. They watched each other for a long moment, then Sherlock stepped in, hands undoing Mycroft’s pants and tipping his head to nip at Mycroft’s mouth in what John thought was probably the kisses they usually shared. Mycroft relaxed into it too easily, head tipping back to let Sherlock nibble and nip and suckle.

John could only watch helplessly as Sherlock drew out Mycroft’s cock and stroked it for a moment before producing lube from a pocket and opening it up, slicking over the hard length that John dimly realised would shortly be taking him.

And Sherlock would be watching. It sent a sharp spike of lust through him, that this was what Sherlock had fantasised about, him pinned down and being fucked hard and fast by Sherlock’s own brother.

Mycroft stepped back from Sherlock and slid around the table, taking a moment to grasp John’s butt with his hands, squeezing firmly. “You have quite a lovely arse, Doctor, truly lovely.”

“Thanks?” He twisted to look back at Mycroft. Mycroft smiled reassuringly.

Sherlock grabbed John’s hands and hauled them back towards him, pulling John flat on the table and making him look back. “Watch me,” Sherlock said. “Look at me, John, watch my eyes.”

He looked up to Sherlock’s eyes.

Hands pushed him open and blunt, heated thickness pushed at him, almost a tease until they lined up right and then there was an uncomfortable burn as he felt Mycroft start to work his way in.

He still held Sherlock’s gaze though, and it made everything both better and worse, because he was sure that Sherlock was dissecting every flinch and breath, dissecting his discomfort and pleasure and analysing it and categorising it and he was doing it all while his brother twisted and pushed and rocked against his lover.

He felt thumbs digging into his lower back, forcing him to relax more, sink into the table and back onto Mycroft. He could feel the heat of Mycroft’s body against his skin, the rasp of expensive trousers against him and the deep, full feeling of that hard cock buried in him.

“Tell me how it feels,” Sherlock said with a tiny smile. “Tell me everything.”

“Sherlock,” he managed to whisper. “I can’t-”

Sick of being ignored, Mycroft pulled back out again and pushed in with a smooth, firm thrust. John felt every inch of the movement and then the shift and a second push and Mycroft as pushing down and in at just the right angle.

His whole body bucked with pleasure, pinned helplessly between Mycroft, the table and Sherlock, pulling him taut and playing his pleasure like a violin.

Now that the angle was just right, Mycroft didn’t slow, didn’t ease his relentless drive into John’s body. He thrust just right every time to make John cry out in low, harsh sounds which made Sherlock smile in turn.

John wanted to rock, to push and feel Sherlock under him, his mouth or his hand, something other than the maddeningly taut silk tie wrapped around him still. He ached for relief and he wanted to see how long they would string him out.

“Please,” he heard himself whisper.

“Please what,” Sherlock asked. “Do you want him to move harder? Faster? To stop?”

“No.” Not stop. Aside from that, he didn’t know. He just knew he wanted, needed more.

“Use him,” Sherlock said, not looking from John as he addressed his brother.

Unlike the last times, Mycroft didn’t confirm with John. He just did it, moving sharper and faster, one hand gripping John’s good shoulder for leverage as he took. John had never felt to thoroughly taken as Mycroft fucked him hard and fast, the table shaking with the force and John breathless as his cock jerked helplessly with each shock of pleasure in him.

Sherlock let go of his hands and stood up.

John found himself craning his neck until he realised his hands were free and he could move, pushing to his elbows and rocking back instinctively onto Mycroft. He was panting for breath and still watching Sherlock’s eyes; their gaze held as Sherlock undid his shirt but didn’t remove it before moving onto his pants, undoing them with calm motion completely at odds with the way Mycroft and John fucked in front of him.

When he was stripped to just his shirt hanging from his shoulders with cuffs undone and sleeves half rolled up, he crawled up along the table, still holding John’s gaze as he pushed him more upright. Mycroft grunted with displeasure as he was forced to stop moving and instead help pull John to standing straight.

It wasn’t comfortable, spread so wide, impaled and fucked and painfully hard and now being held in a tangle of arms that seemed to be conspiring to stop him moving.

Sliding forwards, Sherlock spun to sit on the edge of the table, long legs wrapping around John’s waist and feet brushing Mycroft’s sides. He leaned back on his elbows. “Let John go, Mycroft. He’s not going to get much leverage with you pinning him like that.”

Leverage? And then he finally looked down, to see that Sherlock’s skin was slick already and he was shifting until the heated skin of John’s cock touched him and it was electric heat through him that he bucked against, drawing a moan from Mycroft.

Clever, nimble fingers slid down between them, guiding him and urging him on until he was nudging at Sherlock’s body and then the younger man took a deep breath and pushed to sink down onto John.

John stopped breathing. The silk tightly tied around his cock was suddenly a blessing because he felt like he was about to come despite it, the way Sherlock wriggled and shimmied down along him, tight and slick and inviting. Mycroft thrust and it bucked John forwards and he was balls deep and Sherlock was moaning under him, head thrown back and leaning on his elbows.

It was as good as impossible for John to move, even when he was allowed to lean over more, his hands braced on the table. All he could do was be bucked up into Sherlock’s body, pulling back as much as Mycroft would allow.

He could lean down though, closing his lips over Sherlock’s nipple and sucking firmly, tongue rubbing the peak. Sherlock groaned and buried his hand in John’s hair. “More,” he murmured.

John gave more, switching to the other one, suckling between gasps as Mycroft picked up his pace again, slamming into John, making him slam into Sherlock, until the younger man slid to lie on his back, hands gripping the edge of the table by John’s hips and looking back up into his eyes again, lips parted and gaze heavy lidded with pleasure.

It was unbearable, the way they worked him between them, with hands and mouths and feet-Sherlock’s damn feet planted on his arse and toes gripping to pulling him open- that pale gaze that never dropped from his, even when Mycroft let John shift the angle to drive against Sherlock’s prostate.

His cock ached inside of Sherlock, and he was sure he couldn’t take anymore when he felt someone tug the tie and the knot undid and suddenly Sherlock was kissing him and whispering, “Come,” against his mouth.

He might’ve shouted. He didn’t know, all he knew was that suddenly Sherlock was tensing around him and Mycroft was slamming deep and harder over his prostate and he was lost in the snapping coil of pleasure overrunning his body as he came hard, shuddering between them and he could hear Sherlock growling at Mycroft but the words meant nothing as he sank down again slowly, aftershocks making his body shiver against Sherlock’s.

“We’re not done yet, John,” Sherlock whispered in his ear.

He opened his eyes and looked to his lover. Mycroft’s hands were bruising tight on his hips and the hard length of Sherlock’s cock still pressed insistently against his stomach. He nodded slightly, pushing Sherlock back along the table, ignoring the faint whimper that he was empty.

Dropping to lean on his elbows, he bent down and closed his lips on the head of Sherlock’s cock, sucking firmly before sliding down a bit further, hand stroking the rest. Sherlock groaned and twisted, hands settling in John’s hair and letting him move as he wanted, up and down and sucking and licking.

It was different from before, where he could barely think past his need to come. He could enjoy the sharp, erratic thrusts in his body now, careful not to push him to over sensitised but needy and wanting and wonderfully selfish in the desire to claim. He could focus on making Sherlock gasp and whimper and moan with his hands and mouth, with suckles and strokes and two fingers sinking back into him and pushing ruthlessly up against his prostate.

Mycroft came first, biting his neck to quiet a sound on his skin, jerking deep and coming off in him. Sherlock was not far behind, arching between the thrust of fingers and the heat of John’s mouth. John pulled back as he came, stroking him through it until he sank to the table and John could sink to relax against him, head on his stomach and eyes closed.

Mycroft moved. John muffled the sound of discomfort as he was made aware of how empty he felt. The older man came to crouch up near them, brushing John’s hair back from his face. “Mm... you’re okay. Just worn out.” He moved on to Sherlock and John peeked to watch as Mycroft pushed back Sherlock’s curls and kissed his brow fondly. “I need your help, Sherlock.”

“Of course,” Sherlock sighed. “John, head up.”

John groaned.

Hands lifted his head and Sherlock moved away from him. Familiar hands stroked his back and held him as his ankles were cut free from the table legs and tried to give out on him.

“Come on.” Sherlock pulled him upright and between the two brothers, John found he could move enough to get to Sherlock’s room and sprawl on the surprisingly clear bed.

Not surprising. They’d planned this perfectly.

He pulled Sherlock down with him and looked up at Mycroft. “You staying,” he asked sleepily.

“I cannot. I have matters of state to attend to.” He was already looking barely rumpled, clothing sorted out, just his jacket missing. “I might call tonight and see if you’re both awake. Social call.”

Sherlock snorted and wrinkled his nose as Mycroft kissed his brow tenderly, one thumb sweeping over his little brother’s cheek.

John glanced away, feeling out of place, but then his chin was caught and he was lifted into a soft kiss on the mouth that ended as easily as it started.

Mycroft smiled slightly and straightened up. “Sherlock, let John rest. He needs it.”

The only reply was Sherlock positively snuggling into John as Mycroft left the room and let himself out.

Then Sherlock bit him.

John yelped, but it trailed into a low moan as Sherlock wrapped long arms and elgs around him and suckled instead, breaking off only when he’d left as mark. “Better.”

“What is?” John bullied Sherlock into lying down so he could lie on him like behind, head on his chest this time and legs tangled.

“You had a mark from Mycroft. Now you have one from me instead.” Sherlock sounded smug.

“That’s important is it?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s hand tightened briefly. “I might share with Mycroft, but you’re mine.”

“Oh. Well. Okay.”

And it was.